Unrequited Forgiveness
by Australian Surmise
Summary: An angsty perception of the possibility of Erik and Meg. Mainly one-sided E/M, hints at one-sided E/C, and tidbits of R/C. Erik and Meg are extremely musical-verse, but Raoul and Christine are more Leroux-esque. Begun as a one-shot, now continued.
1. Unexpected Intruder

The man's strangled cry did not distract Meg from her book. Not that it was a particularly interesting novel, but she knew that devoting her attention to the interruption would be to no one's benefit. She sighed inwardly as Erik threw the intruder up against yet another wall of their home. _Ah well_, she thought to herself, _you know what they say…once a notoriously short-tempered, violent and lovesick opera ghost, always a notoriously short-tempered, violent and lovesick opera ghost…_

"You should not have come back!" Erik's voice echoed through the cavernous catacombs he called home. "Erik will make sure that you do not have the chance to intrude again!"

There was a gasped, unintelligible response from the unequivocally handsome Vicomte. Erik pushed the guest harder against the wall, if at all possible, and Meg flipped the page of her book nonchalantly. "Good afternoon, Monsieur le Vicomte," the latter greeted amiably, seeming to be absorbed in her reading. "I trust you are in good health?"

Out of the corner of her eye she caught Raoul's incredulous glance, as if he was of the opinion that she was as insane as the man currently assaulting him. Meg stifled an amused chuckle, twirling a blonde lock between her fingers. "Erik, where are your manners? That is no way to treat a guest. And nobility at that! Tsk, tsk." Meg laughed silently to herself as she said the words, realizing that she was sounding like a less severe version of her mother.

Erik's head whipped around to focus on her for a moment before turning his attention back to his soon-to-be victim. "You should keep silent, or Erik may not be satisfied with killing you swiftly. He might want Christine's boy to suffer…"

"You'll regret this later, Erik," Meg told him in a singsong voice, much the same as a mother telling her child not to eat too many sweets.

"I doubt it," Erik hissed, causing the young nobleman to shiver and shrink away from the heated whisper.

"What would Christine say?" was her next attack, although this remark may have been a shot below the belt. Meg watched Erik stiffen in her peripheral vision, his hand grasping the Vicomte's neck tighter as he paused in his reach for his lasso.

"_She_ does not matter," he replied icily, spitting the pronoun out, his voice laced with venom.

Meg shrugged, turning her gaze back to her book. "It's your funeral."

Erik chuckled sinisterly, brandishing the Punjab in a frightened Raoul's face. "Actually, _my dear_, I believe it will be the Vicomte's."

Meg sighed, audibly this time, her eyes following the words on the same page she had been studying for several minutes. She began to hum the aria from Faust quietly, purposely making a note out of tune every so often.

It was almost comical, how a muscle in Erik's neck twitched every time she let her voice slide off key. Meg saw his determination wavering, even as he slid the lasso around the unlucky suitor's neck. "Marguerite…" The word was just a breath from Erik's lips, a whisper under her torturing of the poor song.

"Come correct me, Erik," she cooed softly, a small smile managing to curl her lips. She set her book on the divan and walked to the organ, playing the same notes she had just been singing, letting her fingers slip from the correct keys to ruin a chord. Reminding him of music and Christine all in one blow… "You can play the song so much better than I," she murmured, continuing to play the magnificent instrument rather poorly.

She watched Erik's determination waver as Raoul sputtered for breath under the lasso. Finally Erik let the younger man fall to the floor, gasping for lost breath, and stalked quickly to the organ, pushing Meg's fingers from his instrument roughly. A sad smile flitted across Meg's face. Even after months of her constant presence with the masked unfortunate, it was no mystery where his priorities lay. Music was first, and Christine was a close second, even after her flee from the haunted edifice.

Meg did not even make the top five on a good day, and though she wished it otherwise, she realized and accepted this fact. Erik's heart would never belong to her, even if every inch of her own beat solely for his.

Her fingers squeezed her companion's shoulder firmly, letting her own shoulders relax as Erik tuned out the rest of the world in favor of his music. _Perhaps his world of notes and dynamics is simpler than this one,_ Meg mused dryly, flitting over to where a dazed Vicomte sprawled on the living room floor.

"You are even more foolish than I though, monsieur, if you have come here with out a justifiable reason," she told him, disapproval strong in her tone. She pulled the now-loose lasso from around the handsome neck, crossing her arms as Raoul blinked furiously, trying to focus on her.

"So are you just here for your adrenaline rush, or did you have some message important enough to risk the bowels of hell to deliver?" She raised her eyebrows expectantly. "If you are here simply to make my life more difficult, I suggest you leave before this aria finishes." Both pairs of eyes flashed to wear Erik sat, flooding the tiny home with the familiar sounds of Faust.

"I…I did come here for a reason," the young nobleman whispered. "It's about…about C-christine…"

Meg inhaled sharply, glad that Erik was unable to hear their hushed conversation over the rolling chords and charming harmonies. "And what, pray tell, has my dear old friend managed to get herself into this time?" Bitterness betrayed the dancer's neutral expression, a bitterness that had only surfaced in recent weeks, when Meg had discovered just how deeply Erik and Christine were connected…_to the point of obsession_...

"She's sick," he whispered brokenly, staring at the floor. "She's sick, and I don't know what's wrong with her."

Meg was unable to help herself. She broke out laughing, the effort springing tears to her eyes. "If that is really why you're here, then you are not foolish. You are outright stupid!"

Raoul frowned, staring at her as if she were crazy once more.

"Do you think you can find a doctor in the catacombs of an abandoned opera house?" Meg questioned, getting to her feet and rolling her eyes. _If he and Erik were not constantly at each other's throats, they'd probably be the best of friends…_she thought irritably. _Both are turned completely idiotic by a single woman…Men._

"She refuses to see a doctor," Raoul explained in a rush. "I thought…I thought you would know what to do. You're her friend – your mother said I could find you here…"

Meg sighed, for what seemed like the hundredth time that night, and extended her hand to help the young man to his feet. "Christine Daae has never done anything I've told her."

The heartbroken look on his face was enough to make Meg want to roll her eyes again, but also enough to make her give in. "Alright, I'll give it a try. No promises how soon I will be there, or that she will even agree to see me. The Vicomtess is at the de Chagny mansion, I presume?"

Raoul nodded. "Thank you, mademoiselle, thank you!" He took her hand and bestowed a chaste kiss to it.

"Don't thank me yet," she murmured under her breath, all too aware of the sweet and gentlemanly gesture that the Vicomte had unthinkingly bestowed upon her. The gentleness she had been missing for these long months all came back to her in a flash…a gentle kiss to the forehead, the harmless holding of hands…

"Marguerite!"

The harsh sound of Erik's beautiful voice pronouncing her name brought her back to reality. To her relief, Raoul was already gone, although this left her alone with the masked murderer. "Yes, Erik?" she replied softly, attempting to regain her calm façade.

"Where is he?" The angry growl came from somewhere just behind Meg, but she dared not turn to face her volatile companion.

"Where is who, Erik?" she replied meekly, her courage failing her at last, now that Raoul's life was not in immediate danger.

"You know precisely who, you insufferable woman! The Vicomte!" Meg felt herself being spun abruptly and forced back against the wall. She bit back her whimper of pain, watching Erik's enraged expression as calmly as she could. "Where is he, damn you?"

"Gone," she replied simply, staring into the face of the short-tempered monster she seemed to manage to unleash on a daily basis.

"How could you let him go? Did I not make it clear that his life was forfeit for his trespassing?" Erik was hissing in her ear now, so much more dangerously than his yelling.

Meg didn't answer, causing Erik to grip her arms with new force, throwing her back into the wall once more. This time she was unable to stop a slight hiss of pain from slipping between her teeth.

And although his fingers dug into her already painful bruises, and he was as angry as ever with her, Meg could not stop herself from closing the distance between them and experimentally pressing her lips to his.

She felt Erik tense beneath her, and then she was being shoved violently away. She crumpled to the ground and remained there for a few moments before slowly looking up at Erik. "Don't ever do that again! You are not Christine!" And Meg received a sharp blow to the cheek.

Meg's gasp was the only thing that disrupted the silence that followed the sudden strike. Perhaps her surprise was not at the blow, but at his words. She knew very well that she was not and could never be Christine to him. She attempted not to show her hurt on her face from the words, instead focusing on the pain in her cheek. Never before had he intentionally hit her; he insisted that he was a gentleman, adverse to hurting women. _But, _her mind argued with her, _are your arms not bruised from his previous assaults? Perhaps they were not sharp strikes, but he has hurt you…_

_It wasn't on purpose! _her heart insisted stubbornly. _He just becomes angry, and doesn't realize what he is doing!_

During her internal debate, Erik had fallen to his knees, face buried in his hands. "Marguerite…" he whispered, edging closer to her.

She drew back, not sure that his temper had passed, or even that his violence would leave with the anger.

He was keening softly, stealing glances at her through his fingers. "Marguerite," he whispered again. He corrected himself. "Meg…"

She sighed, letting her hand fall from its protective placement in front of her cheek. Her eyes met Erik's for a brief moment, before he continued his sobbing in what appeared to be shame. "Forgive me…forgive me…I didn't…Erik didn't mean…didn't want to hurt you…"

It was the same way every time. Erik would become violent in his anger, usually just grasping her too tight, or throwing her against a wall, and he would realize his wrongdoing only moments later. He would beg her forgiveness, and she would give it freely. And perhaps the saddest part was that she recognized the pattern, and yet had no desire to break it.

It was the only time that Erik ever showed her a bit of his weakness, his desire for acceptance. And as perverse as it seemed, she relished the time after the violence, when he would beg something of her, vie for her affection.

"I forgive you, Erik," she murmured softly, watching the small hint of a smile creep up onto his masked face.

He threw himself into her arms, sobbing into her shoulder. "Erik is sorry….Erik is so sorry…" He keened this mantra repeatedly into her bodice.

She delicately wrapped her arms around his shoulders, holding his shaking body to her own surprisingly still one. Meg felt like a mother, not a lover or even a friend. A mother who had just forgiven her son for breaking the expensive vase.

Meg let her head fall back against the wall, closing her eyes. These encounters with Erik always left her exhausted. She knew that her poor muscles would hate her for falling asleep in this position later, unless Erik was in a particularly good mood and chose to move her whilst she slept. Meg sighed in contentment for the first time that night, and slipped toward unconsciousness.

_Whether it is the love of a mother or friend, it is love all the same, right?_


	2. The Angst Within

**A/N: So…I've decided to continue this little fic, mostly because the relationship between Meg and Erik is extremely fun to write. Hey, what can I say, I'm a sucker for angst. This chapter is mostly just Meg being angsty with herself, but for some reason I like it quite a bit. Oh – just so you know, I don't hold my fic hostage for lack of reviews. When I finish a chapter, it'll be posted. =) That said, I do thrive off of reviews…and they may attract the plot bunnies…**

The October wind was uncommonly harsh against Meg's skin, even through the relatively heavy cloak she had managed to sneak from the Louise-Phillipe room. She knew that Erik would probably be furious when she returned; he absolutely loathed it when she touched anything that may have once been meant for Christine, had been touched by Christine, or had even the slightest connection Christine whatsoever. And due to his lovely obsession, that happened to be almost everything in the house on the lake.

Part of Meg wondered whether she had just taken the cloak to be difficult, to provoke another argument and perhaps a violent outburst. _Don't be stupid, _she told herself stubbornly. _It's cold out here, and I didn't plan to be staying in those godforsaken cellars so long. I didn't have an appropriate cloak of my own. _

But then there was the fact that she hadn't let Erik know that she was leaving. The last time she had left to retrieve some personal things from her home, he had gone off into quite a rant upon her return. _But why should he care? _she asked herself bitterly, wrapping the contraband cloak tighter around herself. _It's not as if he actually wants me there. He constantly reminds me that I'm not his angel… _The word sounded surprisingly venomous even to her churning mind.

_Plus, what would I have told him? Oh, yes, Erik darling, I'm off to pay a visit to the love of your life who left you for dead and who may possibly be dying. That would have gone over very well._ Lying to him was completely impossible; he'd see right through her deception in a beat of his twisted heart. Down inside, she realized that she was attempting to justify actions that had been completed for purely selfish reasons.

Meg sighed, looking back over her shoulder, looking for what she could not place a name to. For Erik to follow her and drag her back to his hell of a home? She wanted to laugh at even the idea. He had been slumped over unconscious on the second love of his life, the organ, when she had awoken, still in the awkward position against the wall. _For a self-proclaimed gentleman, he certainly had a strange perception of chivalry._

Even in the months that she had resided in his home, he had not even gone so far as to offer her an actual bed. Her sleeping space had been the divan in the living room, as the only bed in the eclectic house had been previously occupied by Christine.

At least she wasn't on constant suicide watch, as she had forced herself to be when she first came into contact with the heartbroken musician. Even after he insisted that the blood she found wasn't his…

Would Erik notice if she herself committed such an unholy act of cowardice? Perhaps in her death he would realize how much he had cared for the currently unemployed ballerina…

Meg inwardly cursed herself for such morbid thoughts. _Really, I'm becoming as paranoid and crazy as he is! I really must leave the lair more often…_

Although her underused feet ached at the long walk, and the wind whipped her hair unkindly around her face, Meg was relishing in the long walk across Paris to the de Chagny mansion. It helped her to think about her pitiable predicament, to focus on something besides whether it was safe to enter the same room as Erik for once.

She had to laugh at herself as her mother's nagging voice echoed in her head. _Marguerite, if you go out in the cold so long, you will never be able to dance again! You'll make yourself so ill you won't be able to move for days!_

The idea was so humorous, probably because dancing hadn't even had a place in Meg's thoughts for months. She couldn't remember a time when she had gone so long without even a thought of an opera, of the ballet corps, of dancing…

But that was a different lifetime. A life where she was not constantly yearning for a violent psychopath's attention. _Thank God he was born with his face, _she found herself reflecting. _With his talents and voice, he would certainly have the world at his feet if he was handsome…_

No matter how much Erik constantly complained about his appearance, and as terrible as his past had been, Meg did not think she would feel the same way about him if he was whole. He just wouldn't be…well, Erik.

And even currently, Meg was unsure how she felt about the masked murderer. She scoffed at the idea of love; years of being harassed by stage hands, both drunken and sober, tended to do that to you. Ballet rats who lost their talent, appeal, or youth almost always ended up as prostitutes or beggars. What respectable gentleman wanted a chorus girl for a wife?

Well, there was an answer to that question. The Vicomte de Chagny, for one, and Erik would be the second, if either man fell under the category of gentleman. The Vicomte, while nobility, seemed to be too naïve to realize all that his station entailed. And Erik….well, one's reputation as a gentleman cannot be enhanced by terrorizing the inhabitants of an opera house. Kidnapping could hardly be considered proper courting…

Not that Meg knew much about courting firsthand. Her mother had always insisted that men were unimportant to a training prima ballerina – there would be men enough when she attained prima status. Rehearsals. It was always rehearsals.

Most of her perception of romance had come from the cheap paperback novels that often littered the dormitories. And, quite frankly, Meg had found the traditional ideas of romances rather uninteresting. Candle light dinners had never appealed to her, similarly to bouquets of roses and love letters written by a handsome suitor.

Now she would give anything to even feel a flicker of romance. And she didn't want it from some random stagehand – she wanted it from the one man who would not give it to her.

So no, she did not consider her feelings for Erik love. So then what was it? Meg had been struggling for weeks to put a name to the feeling. Lust? No, that wasn't it either. She recalled the feeling of lust all to well from the visit of the son of a certain patron… _Now is not the time to think of that! _she scolded herself. Love and lust ruled out, what did that leave?

Fascination was another word that came to mind, but she wasn't sure whether that explained her feelings completely. She knew and would openly admit to anyone besides Erik and Christine that the dangerous aura that surrounded Erik enticed her even further. But she would deny until her grave that another underlying reason she desired Erik was that he was the one thing she couldn't have, the one thing that was unattainable.

Meg turned her mind to other things as she began to pass through the low-class parts of town. Dwelling on what she felt for Erik would not be a good excuse to be attacked. So instead she took notice of but spared no glance to the toothless beggar woman that called out to her, the man dressed in rags whispering obscenities at her passing form. Living in an opera house for most of your life exposed you to poverty, and also taught you how to handle it. You lived with the poor and performed for the rich. Meg was more street-smart than Christine could ever wish to be.

Ironically enough, Meg's lack of naivety repelled Erik, rather than impressed him. He wanted his innocent angel, the girl he could protect and control without a complaint or second thought. Christine wanted her life planned out perfectly ahead of her, Meg did not. Christine wanted safety and security, Meg did not. That was just about the last thing Erik had to offer the unemployed ballerina.

If Meg was to be honest with herself, Erik had absolutely nothing to offer her.

_Then why am I still here?_


	3. Waiting in All the Wrong Places

**A/N: So…it's taken me a little longer than anticipated for this one. I couldn't decide how to organize the progression of the story. You're reading the third completed draft of this chapter, in case you were wondering. But, that said, I do think it came out pretty well.**

It seemed like Meg spent quite a lot of time waiting lately.

Not that she was particularly patient. True, she could usually steel herself to endure the painstaking hours required to practice and perfect ballet, but when waiting for her friends or mother, she was almost always the one standing on her toes, tapping her foot, crossing her arms, and usually listening to her mother's lecture about how unladylike she looked, which of course only made Antoinette want to take a longer period of time to get ready.

So as she circled the once glorious Opera for the sixth time that day, Meg found it strangely ironic that she was stalling for time. She was purposely avoiding the descent into the catacombs, and not for the reasons that most girls would avoid going down into

the secluded cellars of an opera house, haunted by a man with half a face. Meg was not afraid of spiders, or rats, or even the traps that the Phantom of the Opera had waiting for unwanted visitors.

Of course, Meg was not an unwanted visitor anymore. At least, that was what she told herself as she approached the tiny hidden entrance behind the stables. With the news she brought, Meg was fairly certain that she may see the inside of Erik's torture room much sooner than she would have liked. And she didn't suppose that a plea of 'Don't shoot the messenger' would do her any good…

Her arrival in the lair was surprisingly uneventful, but it was not until she had finally traveled across the lake and stepped out onto the bank that she noticed the absence of something usually quite prevalent in Erik's domain. Something that should have caught her attention far earlier.

_Music_.

Meg stopped moving immediately as she the bone chilling feel of leather against her skin. She swallowed hard, staring straight ahead in attempt not to scream. Erik leaned in close over her right shoulder, his lips (or lack there of) mere inches from her ear.

"Back so soon, _mademoiselle_?" Erik's perfect voice fell softly into her ear, the polite title he had given her snagging like a caught piece of perfect silk, alerting her to the danger present in his tone. She felt his hand traveling up to the column of her neck, and though she desperately wanted nothing more than to shriek and recoil, Meg let his hand trail around to the front of her throat and undo the clasp of the cloak.

He ripped it harshly from her body, laying it down carefully on the settee. She sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes closing automatically at the rough and uncalled for measure. "Hello, Erik," she finally acknowledged breathlessly.

"You left without telling me," Erik whispered, shoving her forward, away from him, and brushing past her. "You took something from _her _room, and you know you are not allowed."

Meg let out a large breath that she had not realized she had been holding. "You are not my father, Erik," she finally muttered.

"You live here!" he exploded, turning back to her angrily. "Unless you want to live on the streets, you will follow Erik's rules! Erik lets you stay here because you are Christine's friend!"

Meg noticed Erik's regression, and yet, she made no attempt to calm him down. "Perhaps it would be safer to live on the streets than here," she muttered.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, freezing in a statuesque pose.

Meg winced, but it was too late to take back what she had said now. "On the street, people do not burst out in random violent bursts. On the street, I would know how to protect myself. These random attacks wouldn't happen."

"You dare to insinuate -"

"I'm not insinuating anything!" she finally exploded. "I'm telling you that you are a dangerous madman, monsieur, and it might actually be safer to live on the streets of Paris than in this godforsaken place with you!"

Erik stared at her in disbelief for a long moment, and she attempted not to falter under his gaze, regretting her outbursts almost instantaneously. "Get out," he hissed. "Get out of my opera house, and do not come back."

"Erik, I…"

"Get out!" he screamed, hitting the wall with his fist in anger. "Erik has to be alone! No one can stand to be near Erik…they are all repulsed…."

"It's not your face, damn it!" she cried in response, silently wincing as she too cursed. "It's you! You're crazy, you're insane, you're violent!"

"Then what are you still doing here?" he demanded, taking two intimidating steps towards her, which she responded to with two quick steps in retreat.

"I…" For once, Meg could not come up with any cheeky response; actually, she was unable to come up with any response at all.

"Get. Out." Erik hissed, spinning away from her and grabbing the nearest item on the table. Spinning back to her, he hurled it at the wall, missing her head narrowly. "GET OUT!"

Meg shrieked instinctually from the shattering glass, running up to the concealed exit she always used. On the verge of tears, she turned back to him for a moment. "She's pregnant, Erik. Your precious, innocent Christine is pregnant. With the Vicomte's baby."

Not lingering a moment, even for the chance to see Erik's face at her revelation, Meg ran as fast as she could up and out of the catacombs, tripping and falling now and then, only causing her to hurry to her feet and run even faster.

As she reached the top of the final flight of stairs, she paused for just a moment to catch her breath. She would have bet her life on the fact that as she turned to leave, she heard the loud, agonized cry of a man in the most horrific and debilitating pain imaginable.

Meg stumbled out into the cold, tears overflowing in her eyes, making it almost impossible to see anything. She shivered in the cold, her light summer dress providing very protection against the harsh wind.

Unable to comprehend what had just happened, Meg fell to the ground. She closed her eyes, leaning her head against the wall behind her. Her brain not working, she slowly slipped towards unconsciousness, a prayer on her lips. "Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum…"

Just as she faded into unconsciousness, she could have sworn she saw the outline of a Punjab lasso fall in front of her eyes.


	4. What is Dead Can Never Die

**A/N: I apologize for the lengthy wait. I honestly just lost my muse for this, but somehow it returned yesterday, strangely close to the time I read the anonymous review that was posted yesterday. I also apologize for the cliffhanger. So here it is, the end, finally. **

Meg came to her senses long before she found herself capable of opening her eyes. She could feel the soft cushions underneath her, the warmth of the fire on her skin, chasing away all of the cold, the way the her body ached and argued against her consciousness.

_I hurt too much to be in Heaven._

She groaned as she opened her eyes, her hand flying up to her head. _This is definitely, definitely not Heaven._

"Shh," a soft, feminine voice murmured. "Just relax, Meg, you gave us quite a scare."

"M-maman?" she questioned, frowning slightly in confusion. Blinking rapidly, she turned her head around, trying to catch sight of the woman. She only frowned harder when the stern-looking woman dressed all in black finally came into her vision. "What are you...where am I...what's going on?" Then, pushing herself up into a sitting position, she added, "Where's Erik?"

"Lie still, child," Madame Giry told her firmly, pushing her back down towards the couch. "You very nearly died."

_Died? Yes, I remember that...the argument, the running, the cold...oh, the cold. _Meg groaned again when she remembered the exact circumstances from which she had fled the opera house.

"You were freezing, dehydrated, and malnourished when you got here," Madame Giry continued. "Honestly, girl, did I teach you nothing? You can't even remember to take a sip of water once in a while?"

"I'm sorry, Maman," Meg replied sheepishly, feeling again like the little girl being scolded for not practicing her _plié__s _enough. "I...things were...difficult."

Madame Giry sighed, shaking her head a little. "And yet you stayed. You knew he was crazy, insane, dangerous, and yet you didn't come home. To safety. To me."

"I...he needed me."

The older woman laughed a little. "Needed you? He needed you so much he left you without food, without warmth, threw you out on the street when he couldn't accept the news you brought him? Meg, he's never needed you. He needs to be on his own; he won't believe you accept him even if you truly do."

"I had to try," she told her mother stubbornly. "Who else would?"

"People who are stupid enough to try such stupid, heroic feats rarely escape unscathed. Christine is barely able to be her own person anymore. And you almost died, Meg!"

"What was I supposed to do?" she snapped, shoving her mother's hands away. "Get up and leave, say, 'Sorry Erik, I give up?' He deserves better than that!"

There was silence in the small flat for a long moment. "So do you, Meg. You deserve better than that hole in that ground with that hole of a man who will never be able to give you what you need."

* * *

"Who brought me here?"

Shaking her head a little, Madame Giry seemed to consider how to respond. "Erik," she finally admitted, eyes on the shirt she was mending.

"Did he say anything?"

Another pause. "Meg, I really don't think it prudent to dwell -"

"Did he say anything?" she repeated stubbornly, crossing her arms in an obvious show of defiance.

Madame Giry sighed. "He showed up at the door with you in his arms, and I let him in without asking any questions. I learned long ago not to ask when it comes to Erik."

"So he didn't say anything?" Meg asked softly, sighing a little to herself.

"I wasn't finished," her mother chastised, frowning at her daughter. "He put you on the couch and turned to me, visibly upset. He asked me to take care of you, that he was afraid you were hurt, that you weren't going to survive.

"He sat near the door for awhile while I tended to you, silent all the while. Finally I asked him what had happened. I received the story in bits and pieces - it was not a good day for him. Erik was afraid that he was the cause of your death."

Meg laughed silently to herself for a moment. A murderer, worrying about causing another death? It was ironic to think that such a madman would fear for her life...that was something at least, no? Valuing her life?

_Enough, _she told herself firmly. _Your mother is right. You need to stop this madness, move on, get your life together. _Meg took another sip of tea to keep herself under control.

"I was unsure whether to give this to you," Madame Giry said softly, catching Meg's attention. Her mother was holding out a wrinkled piece of paper. "I suppose you're old enough to make your own decisions."

Meg took the paper with a surprisingly steady hand, smoothing it out methodically.

_Mademoiselle,_

_ I apologize for the circumstances in which we parted company. Please know you are always welcome in my home._

_ Erik_

Meg stared at the piece of paper for a long moment before crumpling it in her hands._ Mademoiselle__._ The word echoed deafeningly in her head, as if it had been screamed at her. Not Meg, not Marguerite, not even Mademoiselle Giry. Just simply _mademoiselle, _as if she had been no more than a girl he had met on the street.

_You are not Christine! _Erik's voice rang in her head, those words that should have been an obvious statement ringing in her head painfully_. __Mademoiselle, mademoiselle, mademoiselle..._Still a stranger after these many months, still unable to find a place in his life.

_It has to stop__,_ she told herself. _No more. Find yourself a job, get yourself a life, a man. A __real __man. _Meg stood, walking over to the fire, and managed to hesitate only a brief second before tossing the paper into it_. __Mademoiselle__, _she thought bitterly as she watched the paper burn and curl.

* * *

_Erik is dead._

It had been almost ten months since she had seen Erik when she noticed the one line obituary._Erik is dead._ She knew the Daroga must have written it, Erik often spoke of his plans concerning his own death.

Meg was fairly certain that she herself was the reason such actions had been postponed. _While I was there, he had some possible reason to live, _she thought, frowning at the newspaper. _And now, am I the reason he's dead?_

_ He was dead before he ever met you_, a voice nagged in her head. _All you did was delay the inevitable, preserve the shell of a man for a few months longer. _And for what? Had she truly accomplished anything? For herself, for her friends, even for him?

The production opened that night at an opera house on the other side of Paris, where she had found employment after a grueling search process. That night, when she danced, she found herself thinking about Erik, about all that had happened. That night, she danced for him.

She did not shed a tear for his death, but inside she still felt slight pangs of grief for the man he could have been, for all he could have accomplished, and for the girl she had once been. Before the fire, before Christine, before Erik.

Lost in her personal reverie, she did not even notice the single red rose, tied with a black ribbon, that lay on her vanity.

_Fin._


End file.
